At one o'clock next day the flagstaff was cut down by a solid shot, and Sumter was silent.
At three o'clock a mob surged up the street following Senator Barton, who had just come from the harbor. He was on his way to Beauregard's headquarters.
Anderson had surrendered.
A strange quiet held the city. There was no jubilation, no bonfires, no illuminations to celebrate the victory. A sigh of relief for deliverance from a great danger that had threatened their life—that was all.
The Southern flag was flying now from the battered walls, and the people were content. They were glad that Beauregard had given old Bob Anderson the privilege of saluting his flag and marching out with the honors of war. All they asked was to be let alone.
And they were doubly grateful for the strange Providence that had saved every soldier's life while the walls of the Fort had been hammered into a shapeless mass. No blood had yet been spilled on either side. The President of the Confederacy caught the wonderful news from the wires with a cry of joy.
"Peace may yet be possible!" he exclaimed excitedly. "No blood has been spilled in actual conflict—"
His joy was short lived. A rude awakening was in store.
Dick Welford strolled along the brilliantly lighted "Battery" that night with Jennie's little hand resting on his arm.